


Magnetize, Tantalize

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/F, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-23
Packaged: 2018-12-15 15:31:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11808882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Governor Ferguson and Deputy Governor Bennett spend a weekend away at a correctional convention.





	1. Absolutize

**Author's Note:**

> Originally, I had intended for this to be a triptych of sorts, but I wanted to make it even. You'll see what I mean by that in the end, I think. Remember when Erica went to a correctional convention? Well, I think it's high time that Vera and Joan have that opportunity!

A knock at the door disrupts the chaos of the Bennett household. Rather frantically, Vera scurries around her home. She acts like a hurricane: here, there, everywhere. She feels as though she's forgetting something: a piece of herself, perhaps. In the distance, Mum groans in pain, but she has the nurse to offer assistance when required. Her mind's going a mile a minute; poor thing can't seem to gather her thoughts while she plucks a jacket out of her closet. A battered suitcase and an overnight bag lay in the foyer.

The doorbell chimes whimsically.

Governor Joan Ferguson stands on her deputy's porch. Although she dons a charismatic smile, she glances past the smaller woman and raises a brow at the pathetic, misshapen lump by her feet.

Her unkempt appearance speaks of chaos and disorganization incarnate. In time, she'll learn. She has Ferguson to correct her. Guide her. Effectively mentor her.

"Have you packed?" She inquires, an efficiency slipping into her tone.

"Yes, Miss Ferguson."

As such a pretty portrait of compliance, Joan smiles. It's fleeting and rare, only worthy of the deserving.

"Ah, well. The nurse'll appreciate the overtime as surely as you will appreciate the time away."

“Erm, of course. I just, um, I worry is all.”

With her face downcast, her feet come together and she fiddles with her hands.

"Have some faith. Surely, your mother can go a few days without you. Here. Allow me, Vera."

With no effort whatsoever, she meanders around the little mouse and picks up both the bags. Rather haggardly, Vera swings her purse over her shoulder. She follows. Loyalty knows no bounds.

Governor Ferguson and Deputy Governor Bennett organize a weekend trip to the annual ICPA Conference held in Melbourne, Australia. To compensate for the loss, Will Jackson acts as standing governor. Joan loathes the decision, but it's a choice made for the sake of the bigger picture. The greater good, as it so often tends to be.

This serves as a welcome reprieve from the monotony of their jobs and lives. The rotations covered their absence well enough. Vera silently hopes that Wentworth wouldn't burn down while they were away.  
  


Vera's baggage is deposited beside Joan's sleek, black, plastic suitcase. In faint amusement, her deputy wonders if Joan polished the piece herself. At the thought, she cracks a smile.

“Find something funny?”

Joan interrupts the notion that dispels as quickly as it appeared. In denial, she shakes her head. Idle chitchat's made in the car. Vera finds herself relaxing once she settles in the passenger's seat. Captivated by the scenery, she stares out the window. Sometimes, she turns her cheek to observe Governor Ferguson's profile.

"--As I was saying, Vera. I do believe this trip will benefit you greatly. There exists a dual purpose. One: you can put the stress of home aside. Two: you may learn some new content for your career. Consider this a chance for self-growth."

Long fingers tap the steering wheel. She holds out one. Then, another to illustrate her point.

"You're right, Guv'na."

She sounds like a ghost, her voice wispy, her eyes tired.

"I've never done anything like this before," Vera adds.

 _I know,_ Joan wants to say. Refrains. Control is of the essence.

"Well, it's certainly a break from dealing with our lackluster staff."

A conspiratory wink ensues. Vera offers a soft, delicate laugh in response, accompanied by a nervous smile.

"I gather that you and I will take away quite a bit from this."

Her elbow rests on the interior of the door, her palm cradling her cheek. The remainder of the drive is spent in a pleasant silence. It's comfortable; neither feel the need to speak. It's an extension of their trust.

In due time, they arrive at their final destination. The five star hotel is adjacent to the convention center. Joan pulls into the parking garage and finds a spot far removed from the neat array of expensive vehicles. Vera could never dream of affording such frivolous things.

Exiting the car, Joan unpacks their suitcases and hands Vera's bags over. She slings it over her shoulder, struggling to keep up with her mentor: falling behind, but catching up to reach her side each and every time.

“After you, Vera.”

Chivalry isn't dead. She holds the large, glass door open for her meek underling. At the front desk, they check into their respective hotel rooms.

"Wouldn't it be more economical for the board if we were to share a room?" Vera asks innocently enough.

"Mm. Though with all due respect, something tells me that you need a bit of space to call your own, if only for a weekend."

While it would have been economical, the board funded this excursion and Joan relishes her privacy. Simple as that.

Their key cards are handed over and they're bestowed with two separate hotel rooms, situated on opposite ends of the sixth hall. Nice and even; no need for odd numbers. Together, they venture into the elevator.

For Vera, it's strange and new, but not unpleasant.

“See you at the conference?”

“You will, Miss Ferguson,” Vera promises.

“I'll hold you to it.”

Joan disappears down the hall, managing to carry herself as the epitome of pride. Arrogance infects her strut. Despite herself, Vera wishes that she could emulate such self-confidence. It's admirable. Ducking her head, she swipes her key card and disappears into the room.

Decorated to hold a modern appeal, Vera's eyes wander the bedroom. Crimson and gold seem to be the colors of choice. The curtain blocks the view of the street below. Shivering, she turns down the air. She doesn't bother unpacking her bags. Rather, she plops them on her bed and unceremoniously sorts through it all.

Settles on a dress to wear.

The convention has its perks since she's able to abandon the suit and skirt for some other professional attire. She showers. Switches the water from warm to cold and back to warm again. Soaking wet, she towels off. Puts herself together in a modest, grey dress that shows off the sinew of her legs and exposes a hint of her collarbone. The dress, itself, is a slight deviation from her standardized uniform. She wears heels to try to catch up in height though she fails miserably.

Promptly, Vera arrives at the conference. As expected, Joan's earlier than her.

“Grey?” Joan sounds bemused.

“Erm, yes.”

“It's a nice color on you.”

Vera glows, but swallows the praise. Eats it up and mutters her sincerest thanks.

In civi clothing, Miss Ferguson chooses classy rather than over-complicated. Black slacks hug her legs and compliment her curves. She wears an open-collared shirt, showing off a pendant, and a blazer to bring it all together. Coiffed in a bun, she keeps her hair up in that authoritative crown.

To be out of uniform feels terribly alien.

Yet, it's exciting to break the trend of monotony at Wentworth.

Guest lecturer, Tyler McGlynn, begins the conference. In short, a prolific man drones on. What a bore he proves to be. He's but another overweight, balding gent who thinks he knows the right sort of treatment for inmates.

Governor Ferguson pretends to care. She straightens her pencils, two in a uniform row, before folding her hands on top of the desk. Underneath, her legs cross. Vera mirrors the act, choosing instead to cross at the ankles with her hands resting in her lap.

During the conference, Vera catches herself studying Joan's strong profile. Again. It's a portrait worthy of a painting commissioned by a Machiavellian ruler. All the while, Joan wears a passive look, her eyes focused on the lecturer.

Therein exists an uncertainty of distinguishing between wanting to be someone and wanting to be with someone.

McGlynn stands at the podium and discusses his merits. He's obtuse, he's boring, he's into himself. He attempts to enlighten the crowd about proper correctional settings to which Ferguson's controversial frisk technique comes into play. Other topics include the influence of policymakers, attendee networking, managing risk in corrections, the road to rehabilitation, and the nature of human rights in prison.

These are things Joan knows. She has the degrees on her wall to prove it.

For Vera, it's an extra dose of knowledge.

A round table discussion follows regarding the assessment of regarding a potential inmate as a flight risk. Those seated next to one another are forced to talk about the matter at hand. Rather, Joan leans into Vera's personal space. Purses her lips, wearing a coy mask.

There's no need to chat about what they already know.

“He's full of himself, isn't it?”

“More than that, he's a bore!” Vera insists in a hushed whisper.

A glint of amusement shines in Joan's razor eyes. Vera's brown curls tumble down to frame her face.

"You should wear your hair down more often," the Governor remarks.

A silent reverence, a heat fluttering across her chest. Vera brushes her fingertips over her collarbone, swallowing nervously. Unspoken devotion fills her heart and soul with impressive magnitude.

A smirk is paralleled to a blush. Consider this the start to a ritual.

_No one's smiled like that at me before._

Vera muses to herself. Cherishes the moment. Relishes in the tiny gesture that was reserved for her and her alone.

The photographer snaps their picture while seated at the round table. When Vera revisits that portrait, she believes they look happy. That's the way she chooses to remember it.

When you're older, you become more sentimental.

That's simply how it goes.

McGlynn concludes his presentation, the projector flickering with its powerpoint fading away into obscurity. He adjusts his pathetically wilted bowtie and awaits a standing ovation. Lackluster applause commences.

Governor and Deputy rise.

“At least we were paid for this.” Vera attempts to make light of the situation.

“Mm though the idea is to network.”

“O-oh, I, um, see.”

She's not fit for the governorship. Not yet. Give it time.

“It's all a ploy for locating proper donors to allocate funds,” Joan comments off-handedly. Brushes it off all laissez-faire. There's a purpose in conniving apathy.

Vera pretends to understand with a steady nod. She watches Ferguson converse with McGlynn. As a custom, she shakes his hand – only to clean them with a sanitary wipe when he's out of sight, out of mind.

In unison, they exit the room. Back to the hotel, solitary creatures thus regress.

“I'll give you some time to yourself. Explore the sights; perhaps you'll see something that interests you.”

Just like that, Governor Ferguson dismisses her, along with a curt wave of her hand. The prospect of dinner lingers in the back of Vera's mind. She marches, similar to a little toy soldier, into her manufactured room.

She kicks off her heels and falls onto the bed, pushing aside her baggage. Flipping through the channels on the tele, she finds nothing to be of interest. Vera lays on her stomach, her fingers lightly grazing the bottle of the comforter.

A knock at the door catches her off-guard.

“Coming!” She shouts, surprised to find the Governor at her door so soon.

Now, she wears her hair in a loose ponytail.

"Hello, Vera," Joan greets her amicably in a husky tenor. With a quizzical tilt of her head, her actions are precise, as though each and every one is timed.

A Cheshire smirk comes into place.

"Drinks, my treat. Coming?"

 


	2. Polarize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I alluded to this scene in a few comments, but I wanted the barside conversation to play similar (at least, thematically or in terms of mood) to their first debriefing. :3

Prophet and apostle stroll side by side. Pure, unadulterated idol worship exists through a single, simmering stare. Magnetized, Vera allows for her eyes to wander: to trace Joan's profile, to commit it to memory. It makes her caged bird heart sing and reach new, stunning heights. This goes beyond a simple, schoolgirl crush.

When they enter the bar, she ignores the signs.

Round tables are situated near a balcony that overlooks the hotel lobby. Modern crimson chairs stand out as a contrast to the white counter. A chandelier, containing rectangular shades, paints the area in a dim, amber light.

"Would you prefer to sit at the bar or off to the side?"

A choice acts as an extended definition of Joan's trust. Just this once, she allows her deputy to take action: to lead rather than to follow. Rather carefully, Vera mulls it over. Bemused by her facial expressions, Joan exemplifies patience. She watches and she waits as any good huntress would.

Tonight, they pass the Betchdel test.

“By the bar,” the brunette finally decided with her brows scrunched together. “Easier access to the drinks.”

“Very well. After you.”

Joan sweeps an arm across her chest, as though she's the maestro taking the bow before the crowd.

The younger woman meekly dips her head. Takes a seat on a maroon stool that swivels. Give her one too many drinks and that same chair will prove to be a challenge. There's nothing more calming than indulging in a liquor fix after an arduous day of business.

A colorful array of bottles show off their alluring reflection in the glass behind the counter. The bar tender saunters over, a lackluster man in an ill-fitted suit who works to pay his child support on time, but no one wants to hear his story; they never do, they never ask.

"A bottle of your finest Shiraz, please."

_Syrah._

A velvety purr.

The snake hisses in the grass.

The way she says it stirs a fire in Vera's belly. She swallows.

A hand shoots up to signal the man over to do her bidding. It's no different from Nils Jesper.

"I prefer pinot."

"Ah." It's the sound of hollow courtship fused with disappointment; some sacrifices are necessary. “Perhaps you simply need to be... introduced to a new taste? You may enjoy it.”

Joan crinkles a well-practiced smile and swivels to face her little underling. Uncorked,the curvaceous bottle stands between them. Joan scrutinizes the glasses. Ensures that no stains or water marks taint their image. For now, it must suffice.

They hold a toast to aspirations, to a dream team operating perfectly in sync within corrections or, at least, soon to be _in sync_.

"Did you have supper?"

She plays the role of concerned patron, arching a brow at the wisp of a woman seated across from her.

"Yes," she lies and swallows a mouthful of wine. Fire fills her belly. It cures the soft, rumbling hunger pangs that threaten to resurface.

"Vera," Joan tuts. "You must become a better liar. I can see right through you."

 _Can you?_   She wonders with a hand to her mouth. _What else do you see?_

“I forget sometimes.” The confession flows more naturally this time. It's true; she's plagued by a world of worries. The last thing she needs to focus on is nibbling on some pastry to keep her appetite whetted.

“Your health will suffer. Then, who will be my deputy, hm? Certainly not that neaderthal, Mr. Fletcher!”

She uses Vera's weaknesses, her exploits, to her advantage. Luckily, Vera laughs. Takes the bait. Hooked.

"What are your thoughts on Mr. McGlynn?" Joan probes. She sips her tart red; it's grown bitter with age, one could argue that so has she.

"I think you already know," she replies in earnest.

"No, Vera. Be **honest**. Tell me about your opinion on risk management."

"We need to be able to apply risk management to a critical situation like a riot. Discretionary time in the decision making process matters."

Ah, there's that glimpse of potential.

"And if you only have a split second to spare?"

She picks her pupil's brain.

"Then, you go with your gut."

"Think logically, Vera. Emotions are a fool's errand. One systematic flaw can cost many lives. Those inmates smell weakness. They can sense it and drain you for all your worth."

_Just as I can smell your intoxicating perfume tonight._

Vera furrows her brow, her lips occupied by the wine glass. It's a bitter taste. She swallows it like the pill of her conditioning.

“Joan... I'm not wired that way,” she insists with an adamant shake of her head. “I would use my heart and I know-- I _know_ it would cost me.”

She's heard enough.

Thumb and forefinger cradle Joan's temple and cheek. For additional support, her elbow resides comfortably on her thigh. Mimicking the paintings of women exchanging hushed whispers, this is all forged by this unique bond of solidarity. Half of a bottle goes between them: gone as it had so aptly appeared.

Joan leans forward, palm cradling her fair, pale cheek.

"Tell me, Vera, what do you make time for outside of the strict prison regime?"

To be lavished with attention comes off as this unprecedented thing. Unused to the one-on-one, she blinks. A deer in the headlights, ready for the wreck of a lifetime.

"Um, well. I... like to garden."

“Do you?”

Joan pictures Vera under the mid-day sun, sporting a pair of gardening gloves with some gaudy, floral print and a wide-brimmed hat to protect her eyes. It's a comical image, albeit an endearing one.

Again, Vera bobs her head in assertion. She discusses her passion for perennials. Yet, her favorite flower remains the lily of the valley. Beautiful, small, poisonous. An intriguing symbol.

"This is in the strictest confidence, you know," Ferguson chimes in, the rumble of her voice akin to distant thunder. "I can tell that this job is important to you."

There she goes; she's said it again.

Strung out on a fever, Vera gnaws at the inside of her cheek. Wavy, brown hair bounces from the slight gesture of an unspoken deed. Curiosity kills the mouse that peeps out of her hole.

"What kind of drunk are you, Joan?"

At that, they both take a sip.

"I prefer to be in control of my actions."

A thin smirk gives away nothing. Even that seems to hold its allure.

With the wine gone, they're no longer tethered to this spot. Yet, they remain.

"A shot of Vodka to wash it all down?"

Despite knowing her limits, Vera complies.

"Two shots of Belv--" Her eyes linger on the Stolichnaya. She corrects herself. “-- _Stolichnaya_.”

The bar tender grabs the lean, mean bottle by the neck. Her wish is his command.

"Freeze it." She commands smoothly, as though the bar is her prison and the man behind the counter is an inmate.

"-But Joan, that's **expensive**." It's a weak protest with a slight slur accentuating her speech. Vera dwells on the Russian vodka, the pronunciation that sounds hot and heady.

"Only the best for my deputy."

There's something about the Governor that yields an intoxicating effect.

They fall into a comfortable lapse of silence. However, the ambiance instills a layer of seduction to the scene.

Vera looks radiant, as it she's been kissed by sunlight.

Joan dictates the next move across the chessboard. A hand settles on top of her deputy's knee. She gives it a light, amicable squeeze. Again, Joan's tantalizing fingers sweep across her thigh, settling atop Vera's knee. Near giddy with excitement, Vera presses her knees together underneath the bar counter.

Did she or didn't she mean it?

Nothing about this is conventional.

"No harm, no foul, in treating yourself," Joan adds with a wry smirk.

At last, the shot glasses are placed before them. Poison lurks in the basin, waiting to be consumed. Careful to avoid spillage, their glasses touch. They drink until last call. Vodka goes down smoothly enough.

Joan produces her wallet through fluid, graceful movement. She doesn't pay in a card, but in cash. The bills lay crisply on the counter, a generous tip included.

“Thank you. You performed splendidly.”

Compliments from the Governor are few and far in-between. She stands tall, swipes a hand over the front of her blouse, smoothing out any imaginary wrinkles. There's none. Her image is immaculate.

Vera recalls reading somewhere that how a date treats service people – how they tip, how they speak to them – is indicative of how they'll treat you. Suddenly, the observed becomes the observer.

She's had too much to drink. Her whole world twists and turns. Vera struggles to stand. Ferguson appears amused by the scene though she would never outright insult her deputy; she holds the younger woman in far too much esteem for something so _low_.

They talk for hours and the hours come to a vicious end. Stools stand upside down on the counter, projecting an image of abstract art.

“Shall we be off?”

“I, erm... So soon? Yes.”

It's terribly inarticulate, but gets the job done. She doesn't want to leave. Wants to see Joan not impervious and drunk off life, off the vodka she seems to consume like water.

Liquid courage fans the flames in her belly.

"I want to spend more time with you," Vera interjects and a glimpse of the molded woman she will become.

Slowly, Joan turns to look at her, ever watchful with that unreadable expression of hers. The emotional blockade prevents her from saying too much.

“I would like that as well, Vera.”

“I think I had a bit too much,” she frets.

“Nonsense, Vera. You enjoyed yourself.”

“I enjoyed your company more,” Vera repeats herself, ever the fool.

_What an emboldened thing!_

"Watching you enjoy yourself brings me... pleasure." Thin, glossy lips curl into a half-smirk.

"R-really?”

This is torture in the most asinine way; she needs to praise, the teasing, the handfed gestures of Joan's generosity. She takes it all in and drunk off of it, she wants more.

She trips in her heels, but Miss Ferguson catches her and swings her by the upper arm to remain standing. A hand settles on the curve of her back for additional support.

"My, Vera. A bit of a mess, are we?"

A light-hearted jest.

Thanks to the liquor, Vera giggles. She's tipsy. Of this, she reminds herself in the elevator shaft that takes them to their level. In an instant, she could snap out of the haze though it would take some focus – some concentration – both of which she's lacking.

Joan's dark, abysmal eyes wander up and down. Saying nothing, saying everything.

It's uncertain who's wetting their lips here: predator or prey.

Vera sinks her fingers into Joan's upper arm. She squeezes: feels muscle, flesh, and bone. The woman isn't a statue, isn't marble. Her mouth twitches, but she doesn't relent in the fight. She lets Vera take the offense, choosing combative measures through her wit.

"You're slipping, Deputy."

“You caught me just fine--” She falters on the last bit, uncertain as to whether or not she should use title or name. “--Joan.”

They stand in front of Vera's room.

A drink at the bar leads to this.

Emboldened, the little mouse makes her move. The drunker you are, the more earnest you are. She turns her head to the taller woman beside her, grounded and more seductive than a furnace room lullaby. With a honeyed tone, Vera speaks.

"Won't you come in?"

Intrigued by the change of the game, Joan is the one to follow.

 


	3. Liquidize

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be sure to read chapter two first as I've updated them a day apart!

"What do you want, Miss Bennett?"

Rather than crossing the point of no return, Joan Ferguson lingers in the threshold. It's safer to prolong the inevitable than to get burnt again.

"I want you to spend the night with me."

For once, Vera sounds so self-assured. She's strengthened her resolve, swallowed her sorrow though it comes and goes in waves.

Joan tilts her head, her lips flat-lined.

"That's an insufficient answer. Despite our distance from the prison complex, you could be written up for insubordination. Again, what do you want?"

It's as though she's a nosferatu from ancient legend, Carmilla's dying to get in.

For a split second, fear washes over Vera. Petrified, she gawks at Joan. She swallows her anxieties, but they're ever present. Brazened, she steps closer to the trigger.

"I _need_ you, Joan. I want you here with me. Inside of me. I think you want it too."

Lowered inhibitions unveil the heart's desires.

Determined, she looks up at her suffocator. The woman stares down at her. Vera takes this as an incentive to brush her lips against Joan's tense jawline.

Her nostrils flare, partly irritated by the inference and mildly intrigued to see how far Vera is willing to take this.

"Very well,” she concludes. “I can make time for my deputy on my own terms."

Prolonging this raging fire, she lingers outside the door of the hotel room for a full minute. Revels in the way Vera squirms, all glassy-eyed and desperate. Finally, Joan enters on her own accord. She locks the door behind her for good measure.

"You should have some water. Stay hydrated," Joan chastises. Patronizes.

The underlying concern acts as a knife to sever the tension in the air. At the absurdity, Vera titters.

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course, _Guv'na_."

But she does as she's told and grabs the bottle from the mini fridge. Never quite realizing how parched she was, she sips greedily. Her throat works out the rest.

Joan watches.

It's strangely erotic.

Watching her swallow, watching her take it in.

She sets down the empty bottle, bent out of shape, a prelude of what's to come.

Maintaining that sharp, onyx gaze, Vera brings her hands behind her back. She struggles to unclasp and unzip the grey dress that suddenly feels restrictive.

Joan raises a brow. The panther stalks her prey. Saunters around. Stands behind.

“Allow me,” she breathes into the shell of Vera's ear and the younger woman fights off a shiver.

A firm hand traces the swell of her hip. Tickles her spine. Teases her tender ribcage before peeling the dress from such a pretty, little build. The vestige slides off and pools around her ankles. In her undergarments, she remains.

The reward comes in a long-winded caress of her jaw, a thumb pulling the lipstick from her bottom lip. Incredibly forward, Vera's tongue darts out. She tastes the salt of Joan's skin, her humanity in a licentious flavor.

"I can show you so much, Vera."

Coming from Joan's lips, her name sounds like a taboo. That husky tenor makes her weak at the bloody knees. Again, she nearly stumbles, but Joan catches her. Presses a savage bite to her neck, preaching to the aptitude of her animalistic nature that's been kept in a suit of a cage.

Rather than going in for a kiss, she goes in for the kill. Joan's teeth sink into Vera's neck and she shudders. A gasp shakes her to the core. Joan relishes in the sound; she's a violin in her hands, begging to be played over and over again.

"I want to see you," Vera says though the words are distorted by a keening moan.

A thoughtful pause.

She manages to coax Joan out of her shirt. Or so she thinks. The snake sheds off the first layer, leaving on the black slacks and black bra. Joan remains in control, folding her blouse and placing it where it belongs, draped over the chair in the corner of the room. This establishes a connection, a cycle, a union.

There exists a simple efficiency in what she wore beneath the layers. Those breasts, Vera eyes in awe despite how blown out her pupils may look.

Joan's body is a tuned instrument. Her powerful thighs demonstrate a certain grace. Refusing to give away everything; she still hides parts of herself away from Vera's prying eyes.

Her deputy's trembling fingers reach around to unclasp her own bra.

"Patience, Vera."

Joan croons into the shell of her ear, her voice but a sultry murmur. Disentanglement acts as a royal tease. Recoiling, there's a sashay of the hips. Like magnets, Vera's stare follows the path of self-destruction.

A master of her own rhetoric, Joan sits on the bed with her back pressed against the headboard. She crooks her fingers, summoning the one who wants it the most.

"Come here."

Simple demands serve their purpose. It suits Vera's equally simple nature.

Nervously, she sits on the edge, the sheets hissing and swimming underneath her bum. That won't do.

"Vera, sit here. I won't bite."

When she pats her lap, she offers a genial smile. The kind that says she lies.

With that initial coaxing, Vera crawls over and Joan uses her might to pull her closer. Those toned thighs frame her waist. She touches them. Feels the titanic shift of muscle that hides the brittleness of one's bones.

So she takes her rightful place atop temptation's throne.

"You want it?"

A timid nod.

"Good."

Despite her frigidness, Joan exudes an intense, flaring heat. The Governor allows for her disciple to shyly kiss her throat. It burns her neck, a red slash across. Give it time; this'll turn into something ravenous.

"Joan... is this a game to you?"

Age old insecurities bubble up to the surface for the both of them.

"Vera, I'm appalled that you believe that."

The touch that follows tends to be a careful, albeit gentle one. Her hand rests against Vera's blushing cheek before planting a soft kiss to her collarbone. Those are the most lethal; be wary.

She runs her fingers along the bridge of her panties. Vera throbs with need; she sings that well-needed body electric. Joan strokes her lower lips, teasing through the intimacy of foreplay. After years of being trapped in a suppressed household, Vera attempts to stifle her noises.

Somewhere amidst the carnage, her bra and panties come off. They're discarded, laying lifelessly on the ground.

Thumbs tease her nipples, pinching them. She kisses in between the valley of Vera's breasts, threatening to eat her heart out. Teeth tease each nipple until they stand out, swollen and aching. She sinks her teeth into her neck until Vera gasps, the air forced from her lungs. Say hello to the patron saint of your demise.

Make it hurt, make it last.

"Show me how you touch yourself."

Her legs come apart to compensate for the smaller woman between them.

Demurely, Vera's thumb rubs her clit in circles. Hips rock to and fro, an even flow. Her other hand grips the headboard, clawing at the wood that's bound to give her splinters in her carelessness.

"O-oh, _fuck_. Oh, G-God, sorry."

She sings her apology, grabbing the base of the headboard when her fingers sink inside herself. Dampness pools between her legs; the sensation intensifies when she hears the distant rumble of Joan's voice. She's so fucking wet.

"I like seeing this part of you."

Her own impending arousal emits a dull throb below. For now, this is about Vera's unraveling in order to build herself up into the woman she'll become.

" _Fuck_."

Vera stifles a moan, her hair tousled and running wild.

Joan smirks.

That cocky expression fades when Vera's hand retracts from the headboard, from the hotel wall, and finds Joan's ponytail, tugging out the band. Letting her mane spill over, ink splashed against the white pillowcase. It's a dark halo painted across the fabric. Vera hopes for a savior; she won't find it here.

Now, her small palms rest on Joan's shoulders. With a gusto, she grinds her hips. Cruel fingers sift past the well-groomed curls that frame such soft, silken lips. She rubs Vera there, mesmerized by her hooded eyes and open mouth, her vacant expression.

"Yes, Vera. Ride them."

She lays underneath Vera, fingers slightly parted. Gradually, she sinks onto the Devil's spoke. Takes Joan in. Buried to the hilt, this is what it means to be knuckles deep inside of someone.

Being held responsible for one's unraveling deems to be an erotic experience. Her moans remain controlled. A sonata that Vera finds insatiable.

"That's it. Good girl."

The eloquence of her speech robs itself, reduced to a string of barking commands. It has a similar effect on the two of them. Governor Ferguson hums her praise. Desire washes out the pain that throbs in her aching hips.

Her warmth takes her in, clenches around those fingers scratching at her insides. She twists her arm to meet the tandem of Vera's enthusiasm. They fuck like they're insatiable, inseparable.

"That's it... ride it out..."

The heel of her palm drives into her aching, swollen clit. Wetness coats Joan's wrist and she can forgive the mess, just this once.

"Look at me," she commands.

Under her spell, Vera obeys. Blue on black like the motley of bruising. A dazzling array.

"I'm yours, yours, yours," she warbles while panting, clenching and spasming around the tenacity of each, frenzied thrust.

Pain is beauty.

There's an art to Vera's coming undone.

Her orgasm reaches a stunning height before the nose dive. Joan lives for her desperation, her begging, and indulges in her darker desires.

As a reward, she kisses her disciple's browbone, her own breathing ragged.

"W-what about you, Joan?" She's drunk from the deed, from her mentor, from the liquor fix.

"You, ah... needn't worry. This brings me pleasure."

The false veneer slips and her words come out far more gravelly than she intends. The husky tenor ignites a fresh spark of arousal in Vera.

"But," Vera begins. Repeats herself. "But I **want** to."

Quid pro quo.

"Shower. Now," Joan rasps.

 


	4. Canonize

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The canonization of a devil or a saint?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end, my friends.

"Yes, Guv'na."

Ever the pretty picture of compliance, Vera obeys. There is no time to bask in the glow, to have her body wind down from the aftermath of such an intense sensation.

Sated, she crawls off the bed and embodies desire. Joan glances sidelong, admiring Vera's physique. The uniform hides her toned body. Muscles shift beneath the bronze layer of flesh. For the Governor, it's all on display.

In the end, the virtuoso of human discipline promises a delightful reward for Joan Ferguson.

With Vera making her retreat into the bathroom, Joan reaches for the tissue at her disposal on the top of the nightstand. For a moment, she savors Vera's particular scent that clings to her fingers. She entertains the notion of placing her mouth to such a fine purchase – of tasting her, but the fantasy is dispelled and cast aside as extraordinary weakness.

Meticulously, she wipes her fingers. Detaches herself from the bed. Stands and prepares herself for the next part of the ritual.

Her strong, proud profile passes the bathroom mirror. In the looking glass, she catches Vera's enamored stare. It's simple idol worship, bound to be led astray. Bashfully, sweet Vera looks away.

Joan removes the remainder of her clothing. The articles are neatly folded and draped over the towel rack. Bit by bit, she cranks the faucet on.

Nude and in her glory, Vera stares.

She unfastens her ponytail, the iron curtain falling down past her shoulders, black and grey woven together like starlight infesting the night sky. Ferguson steps into the shower. Arches a brow and offers a rather impatient look.

“Coming?”

Magnets come apart only to come together again. Click, click, _boom_.

Akin to a loyal dog, Vera follows. In due time, the inmates of Wentworth will refer to her as a bitch – Ferguson's bitch, Ferguson's possession. Though an insult it may be, it isn't so far from the truth.

Vera spends her time under the sun, now ensnared by a woman who embodies winter's cold. She steps into the shower and gasps.

"My, Vera. Have I found your weakness?" Joan sounds amused.

Her little underling endures the scorching spray from the shower. Like acid rain, it nicks her skin.

"It's hot." She whines.

"Mm... That's not all, it seems," Ferguson quips.

Steam clouds the glass doors. This torrent of water threatens to consume them. Gushing, they could easily drown in the downpour.

In a rare bout of confidence, her knee slides in between Joan's legs. Her stare resembles headlights, focused on the meek thing that attempts to rework herself into something greater. Pale thighs part though a particularly amused expression comes across the Governor's face. In return, she grabs a handful of that firm ass in order to pull that doe of a woman closer.

_I want to devour you._

What a terrifying revelation in the still of night.

Teeth connect with the flesh between Vera's neck and shoulder. She laces her fingers around Joan's neck. A motley of bruises conspire. She draws blood. From the assault, Vera gasps. Tangles her hands in the iron curtain. Grasps at her hair. She tastes her pulse. Drinks her in.

She picks her up and slams her against the tile. Sinewy legs encompass her waist, hitching her body up higher. Vera's wetness presses against her midriff. Her back crashes against the tile. Therein lies the revelation that she could crush her spine through brute force. Ever the merciful God, Joan of Arc relents.

With their breathing ragged, the water washes over them.

“Can I... try something?”

Alcohol evaporates; Vera's left with the surmounting weight of her insecurities. Hesitance infects her voice. Joan clenches her jaw, flares her nostrils. How can a single woman be so irritating?

Intrigue, however, leads her to lower the younger women down onto her bare feet again.

“Go on,” Joan encourages although her tone is crisp.

Through touch, Vera admires a work of art.

It's a mistake, but Joan is quick to comply.

Vera places a kiss to the inside of her wrist. It's too gentle. It traps her and Joan is seized by the affliction of human emotion.

_Show no weakness, Joan._

Ivan Ferguson berates her; she pretends not to hear him, here in the curtain of scalding water.

Vera aspires for the profound. She reaches for a washcloth and allows for it to be entirely saturated by the devilish spray. She adds a pump of hotel-issued soap: a cheap, clean scent that's reminiscent of flesh laundry.

Sheer reverence exudes from Vera's fingertips, the vibration sent into the cloth she bathes her beloved pariah with. Her deputy cups her breasts and savors the weight to them. Runs her thumbs over the softness. Circles each nipple until they reach their peak.

So this is what it means to be canonized.

A gravelly moan slithers out.

She washes and she worships like Mary Magdalene. The small strip of terrycloth does the job. All of this is foreign to Vera. Tonight, she explores uncharted territory. On her knees, she brings her worshiping hands down marble thighs. Awe-struck, she looks up.

A Devil of a God watches her.

Proceed with caution, little mouse: those eyes will eat you alive.

"Enough. Rise."

Unceremoniously, she yanks the cloth from Vera's hands and puts it aside. Limp and useless, it wilts. Vera chews on her chapped, bottom lip. It's fullness entices Joan; she fantasizes about dragging her teeth along such delicious curvature.

Patience, however, is a virtue. Joan inhales through her nostrils. Her predatory gaze falls upon Vera who gradually rises, one knee at a time.

"Go on; you've earned it," she sings in that velvety timbre.

She continues, "Touch me, Vera."

The command sounds more like a plea. She cloaks it through thinly veiled violence. Manicured nails sink deeper into the swell of Vera's bum. The prodigy issues a tiny mewl, a moan that has her wet again.

This insufferable, alluring woman is destined to betray again and again.

Curious, deft fingers span across her quivering stomach. Vera can feel the dampness between Joan's thighs. Her well-groomed curls are saturated, both from the tenacity of the shower and their actions.

On the tips of her toes, she manages to press a kiss to Joan's collarbone. Vera laps at the basin of water that collects there: tastes skin underneath the tastelessness of those tiny, beaded drops. Reverent kisses slip lower – over the expanse of her chest, she dares to take a nipple into her mouth, sucking whilst her hand deeps farther down.

It surprises her to find Joan Ferguson in a state of obscene arousal, legs spread and the crown of her head leaning against the shower wall. She lowers her stare to fixate on Vera's every movement.

Small, slender fingers slide in between her legs. She rubs at her slit, thumb meandering up to her clit to stroke in delicate circles.

"Like this?" She asks innocently, seeking guidance through the thick of desire.

"Harder," Joan demands through clenched teeth.

All too eager, Vera obliges. She applies pressure. Rubs harder. Slowly, she pushes her fingers inside, thumb still over her clit.

"Faster," Joan growls, irked by her own need for gratification.

A large hand swings down, well-timed like the guillotine. Damp, wavy curls spill from between her fingers. She grips the base of Vera's skull and draws her closer to her breast, her body. At the offense, Vera opens her pretty mouth. Doesn't say a thing.

Rubs harder, faster.

Thrusts a single finger in and out, accompanied by another finger and another.

Restraint abandons Joan. She moans throatily, her true nature kicking in. Her nails sink into Vera's scalp. By the root, she pulls her hair. Need outweighs logic. Her hips buck, surging forward to meet Vera's wandering hand.

At the pleasure, her cunt throbs. Begs for that timid touch which yearns for such a thorough exploration. Vera curls her fingers inside of her and she gasps. Trust allows for this exchange, for this impending climax just waiting – begging – to finally happen.

With Vera's thumb working her clit, she comes rather suddenly and unexpectedly. Pupils dilate. Mouth hangs ajar. Shortness of breath promises to follow here in the thereafter, throbbing and pulsating around Vera's spread fingers.

She fantasizes about catching the woman's throat by her hands, by her mouth, and it sets her over the edge. Groaning, she seizes Vera by the wrist to halt her frantic ministrations. It's a cue to stop 'lest she come again.

The shower comes to an end; the spray seizes when Joan twists the nod. She can feel Vera's gaze upon her. The tables have turned. She's made a voyeur of her deputy.

They towel off.

"Are you leaving?" Vera asks, voice wispy.

"I suppose..." She draws on the hotel issued robe. "I can afford to stay."

It's too short. Stops above the knees.

To the bedroom, they make their retreat. Vera wraps a white towel around her waist, her chest. It hides her lithe form, dating back to the erasure thanks to her uniform.

"Stop," Joan dictates when she spies Vera rustling through her luggage, undoubtedly searching for night apparel. "What are you doing?"

"Um... finding a shirt?"

"Get in bed."

A blush fans across her cheeks, her chest. It's alluring how blood paints her body scarlet. How would it look on the outside? Joan wonders.

Timidly, Vera peels back the sheet and slips under it. Bare skin against the comforter proves to be an odd sensation, but not an entirely unpleasant one.

"I told you that it wasn't economical to have two rooms..." She murmurs: a simple observation belonging to a remarkably simple woman.

As if they're an old, married couple, Joan approaches on the right side of the bed. There, she climbs on.

"Don't test my patience, Miss Bennett."

There's an edge in her tone. She overindulges her deputy in this pleasure. Neither remark on the exchange. They lapse into silence where Vera rests her head on her chest and listens to the telltale thump of Joan's heart.

 


End file.
